"True. Well, as I was observing, there are things natural in the child which might seem foolish in the young girl."
I rose submissively.
"I shall not do it again, Cornelius," I said, as I stood before him; "are there other things I do, and which you think foolish?"
"I did not say so."
"Because if there are," I continued, earnestly, "and I should do them in company, for instance, you will only have to say, 'Daisy!' in that way, I shall be sure to understand."
"Nonsense!" he interrupted, reddening.
"Indeed, Cornelius, it is no nonsense: I could understand even a look; I am so accustomed to your face. Have I not been with you nearly three years?"
"That will never do, never!" exclaimed Cornelius, seeming more and more uncomfortable, and stroking his chin with half puzzled, half sorrowful air; "but there is no help for it," he added more firmly; "come here, child."
He drew me on his knee as he spoke.
"But you said it was foolish!" I said, surprised.
"As a habit; not for once."
I yielded; he passed both his arms around me, looked down into my face and said abruptly--
"You know, Daisy, I am fond of you. I think I have shown it; I hope you believe it."
I said I did; but I could scarcely speak, my heart beat so. Why did he tell me of his affection?
"You have not been happy of late," he continued; "at times I have noticed, with pain, an expression of perfect misery on your face: I do not mean that it was justified, but it was there, and, even whilst I blamed you, it grieved me to think you should be unhappy in our home."
"Do not mind it, I don't," I exclaimed eagerly; "I do not mind being unhappy now and then--I would much rather be miserable here with you and Kate, than ever so happy elsewhere."
"Perhaps you would," he replied, "for if you have great faults, no one can say that want of affection is amongst them. You can love, too much perhaps; but that is not the question; on your own confession you are not happy, and to that there is but one remedy. I see in your face that you have guessed it--separation."
Yes, I had guessed it, but not the less acutely did I feel the blow; I did not answer; he continued--
"We must part. You do not know, perhaps you could not understand, how much it pains me to say so; and yet it must be. You are not happy yourself, and there is in the house a sense of unquietness, of strife, that cannot last any longer. But my chief reason for taking this determination concerns you wholly. You are not aware, my poor child, that the feeling you have been indulging is fast spoiling your originally good and generous nature. You are morally ill. I have done what I could to eradicate the disease, but it passed my power. There is but one cure-- absence. And now one last remark: you cannot change my resolve; spare me the pain of refusing that which I cannot and must not grant."
I did spare him that pain. I lay in his arms mute and inanimate with grief. The blow had been inflicted by the hand I had trusted, and had reached me where I had always sought for refuge and consolation. I had been jealous, perverse; I had provoked and tormented him, but I had never thought he could have the heart to banish me. I believe Cornelius had expected not merely entreaties, but lamentations and tears; seeing me so quiet, he wondered.
"Did you understand?" he asked.
"Yes, Cornelius."
"But what have you understood, child?"
"That you will send me away somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't care where, Cornelius."
"I shall send you to school," he said.
"To Miss Wood's?" I asked, naming a day-school close by.
"To a boarding-school," he replied gravely.
I felt that too, but all I said was--
"Then I shall only come home every Sunday."
"My dear," he answered with evident embarrassment, "Kate and I should like it greatly; but would it be accomplishing the object in view?"
So it was to be a complete, a total exile! I looked at him; I did not want to move him, to appeal to his compassion, but my glance wanted to ask his if this could be true. That silent questioning look appeared to trouble him involuntarily.
"Shall Kate come and see me?" I asked after awhile.
"Certainly."
"And may I write to you, Cornelius?"
"No doubt you may. What makes you ask?"
"Because of course _you_ will not come."
"Why not?" asked Cornelius, looking both surprised and hurt; "am I sending you away in anger? I am not, Daisy. I mean it as a cure,--painful perhaps, but short. I am to marry Miss Russell this summer. We will live next-door; you will be here with Kate. I trust that by that time good sense will have prevailed over exaggerated feelings; that you will learn to love and respect Miriam as my wife and the companion of my existence.
This is the true reason of what you perhaps consider a very harsh measure--that your embittered feelings may have time and opportunity to soothe down in peace."
I understood him. This was but the beginning of a life-long separation.
Cornelius married, was lost to me. I felt it, but resistance was useless; I heard him apathetically. Thinking perhaps to rouse and interest me, he said--
"You do not ask to what school you are going?"
"I do not care, Cornelius."
"It is not, properly speaking, a school. The Misses Clapperton are amiable and accomplished women, who eke out a somewhat narrow income by receiving a limited number of pupils. At present they have only two; they can therefore devote all their attention to them and to you. It has always been my ambition that you should be well educated."
I could not help looking at him. Well educated, and his ambition! Ay, I had had a master once, loved, preferred, honoured beyond any other teacher, who taught me every evening, often on his knee, with looks of kindness and caresses of love. Him I had long lost; but then why tell me of others hired to impart the teaching he had grown weary of giving?
"When am I to go?" I asked after awhile.
"To-morrow morning; you can stay longer if you wish."
"No, thank you."
"Is there anything you wish for? Tell me freely."
"I should like to see all your drawings again and to arrange them; they want it, I know."